The Broken Road to Forever
RHONDA R DENNIS
AND
LK OWEN
Copyright © 2016 Rhonda R Dennis and LK Owen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
DEDICATION
Rhonda R Dennis
To the readers; may you find lots of beautiful stories that stay with you for a lifetime.
L.K.Owen
To my husband; thank you for making our road a happy one
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Huge thanks to Susan Garwood at Wicked Women Designs for our fabulous cover; we truly love it.
Donette Freeman, thank you for making this editing experience an enjoyable one. You are the best editor a person could ask for.
Undying gratitude to Jen, our amazing PA. We couldn’t manage without you.
Rhonda R Dennis
Thanks to my family for putting up with another book being written. (Tons of typing, lots of take out, and laundry piles to the ceiling—all with no complaints. Love you guys!)
Liz, thanks for co-writing this story with me.
L.K. Owen
Big thanks to my family for all of their support. It really means a lot.
Thanks to Rhonda for agreeing to co-write with me. I loved every minute of it.
A huge thank you my fabulous street team. You all do so much for me.
To Debi. I cherish our morning chats, they really mean a lot to me. When I’m ready to quit you always keep me going.
And of course big thanks to everyone reading this. I hope you love it as much as I did writing it.
PROLOGUE
1983
Frustration mounts because my pudgy five-year-old legs won’t pump fast enough to get me down the seemingly endless corridor. I can’t be late! Mr. Jones, an insanely strict first-grade teacher, scolds my haste, but I ignore him because my mission is far too important. Miss Sally will surely be giving out the daily attendance stars by now, and I’m only one shy of winning a coveted seat at the class ice cream party!
My patent leather shoes swish as I skate across the slick floor, and the classroom falls silent when my girth plows so solidly against the door that the hit reverberates through the hall. Falling flat on my rear, I hurriedly push down the dress that has flown over my head just in time to see Miss Sally, mid-star placement, turn away from the white paper chart to quizzically stare in my direction.
“Look! Princess panties! Way to go princess poopie pants!” a voice taunts from the back of the kindergarten classroom. Though hurt by the peals of laughter that follow, I put a big smile on my face after using the edge of the door to hoist myself upright. It’s best to pretend it doesn’t bother me—that’s what Mom says. My smile fades when I examine my scraped up, aching elbow.
“Class! Enough! Settle down right now or I’ll remove a star from everyone’s chart,” Miss Sally scolds. A hush instantly falls over the room as she shifts her once angry, but now questioning, gaze in my direction. Her eyebrow arches, and I answer her unasked question.
“My mom was running late again. She worked a double shift and overslept.” Her stern face softens. We’ve been down this road many times before.
“Mallory, though I shouldn’t, I’m going to give you a star for today. Please, take your seat and get out your writing tablet.” My stomach seizes in panic when I remember the yellow Wonder Woman satchel in the backseat of my mother’s clunker. She’s going to be so angry if she has to come back to the school to bring me my things! What starts as a mere lip quiver rapidly escalates into a volcano of emotion just begging to erupt. “What color star…” Miss Sally’s speech is interrupted by my wails.
“I! Forgot! My! Bag, Miss Sally!” She’s at my side, desperately trying to soothe me, but huge tears pour down my chubby cheeks anyway. “My mom’s at work, and she’s going to be….”
“Mallory, it’s fine. Really. Please, stop crying. I don’t think we need to call your mom for this one.” I snivel into the tissue she passes my way. “This can be fixed quite easily. Class, will someone please share some paper and a pencil with Mallory?”
“She’d have paper if Princess Poopie Pants wasn’t trying to get a star just so she can hog all the ice cream like last time,” Brent, the freckle-faced bully, who also happens to be the tallest and most intimidating boy in class, calls out. My cheeks burn, and I want nothing more than to go home.
“Brent. Corner.” Angrily squinting in my direction while Miss Sally points over to the far side of the room, Brent stomps off to place his nose against the designated wall. “Mallory, you may take a seat. Class? Anyone?”
“Here, you can have some of my paper. I have two books. Just keep this one.” I dash the remaining tears from my red-rimmed eyes. The first thing that comes into focus are his tan corduroys, then his brown and orange striped shirt, and finally, a bowl-cut crop of light brown hair.
“Butt kisser,” Brent coughs from the corner. Miss Sally, who was just smiling at the generous act from Nate, now scowls in Brent’s direction. Pinching his ear, she pulls him towards the door.
“Class, I’ll be back shortly. Please, begin copying the words on the board. It’s to the principal’s office for you, mister,” we hear her saying as she guides him down the hall.
“Thanks, Nate,” I say, taking a seat next to him. He’s been my desk partner since school began six months ago, and even so, I think this is the first conversation we’ve actually had with one another. He’s always talking with the other boys in class or playing sports and games in the field during recess. I spend my time sitting on the benches near the cafeteria door—alone.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” he says with a shrug.
“Mallory and Nate, sitting in a tree. K-I-S…,” the student behind us sings.
“Shut up!” Nate snaps.
“That’s true. Mallory can’t sit in the tree because the branches would break!” the boy shouts. The class roars with laughter, and though I’m mortified, I laugh with them. Everyone is so preoccupied that they don’t notice Miss Sally’s return.
“Class! Shall I have the principal come to visit the room? I’m very disappointed in all of your behavior, except for Nate. It was a very nice thing you’ve done for Mallory, and all of you can learn from his actions. You get three stars today, and you’ll get the first sundae at our ice cream party.” He’s the one who flushes red this time.
“Thank you, Miss Sally.” His words are mumbled because he buries his face in his hands. The teacher starts the lesson by writing more names of colors on the board, and I take the opportunity to lean over towards Nate while her back is turned.
“That really was nice. Thank you,” I whisper.
; “Shhh. I’m learning,” is his reply. Giving a sad shrug, I begin copying the lesson, but my thoughts continually drift to the rotten comments made by Brent. Though today marks my first official interaction with the freckle-faced bully, unfortunately, it’s far from my last. Believe it or not, I actually fall pretty hard for him.
ONE
Fall, 1995
The fact that I’m seventeen and still riding a bus to school speaks volumes about the non-existence of my social life. My community is so laden with teen drivers that I’m one of the two seniors who rely on public transportation. The walk is much too far, so I’m stuck. No car for me. No friends who drive, either. I can’t even depend on my parents to get me back and forth. Dad left us long ago, and Mom works extremely long hours at a local store. Even though she is always gone, her wages barely cover the bills, thereby forcing me to supplement the income with a part-time job. So, unlike a lot of the kids in my school who work for a set of wheels, my meager salary is used on things like water, electricity, and food.
The bus suddenly halts, and the extra weight I carry makes it difficult to stay upright. The kid seated next to me sniggers while taking in the sight, and though I secretly want to punch him in his pimply face, I work to right myself while avoiding eye contact. I despise having to ride the stupid bus every day. As it travels on, I try blotting out the mindless chatter of the other students who are mostly freshmen and sophomore underclassmen.
Once at my stop, I take the steps extra slowly, praying my heft doesn’t throw me off balance to the point that I tip over. It’s not like my fear is unwarranted. Let’s just say staying upright isn’t something that comes naturally to me. My cautiousness is in vain, because while the guy behind me shoves past and hits the sidewalk running, I’m left clinging for dear life on the doorframe of the bus.
“Release!” the cigar-chomping old driver demands. I do so, and while shaking his head, he flips the lever to close the door, then roars down the road leaving me to swim in a carbon-filled sea of black exhaust smoke. Fortunately, it’s a short walk to my apartment. After an intense coughing spell, the only things I hear while walking are the swooshing of my pants and the chiming of the keys in my backpack that jangle with each new step. I reach the wooden door shrouded in layers of peeling paint and pop my hip against the moisture-swollen frame until it finally gives. It’s one of the unfortunate side effects of living in the insanely humid Belle Terre, Louisiana.
“Mom, I’m home!” I call out, but as usual, nothing but silence greets me. Placing down my backpack, I make my way to the kitchen and find the note Mom has left me.
Mallory,
Working a double shift again. Someone called in sick. Supper in the freezer.
Love,
Mom
Picking up the crisp piece of paper, I take great satisfaction in scrunching it into a ball. Someone’s always freaking sick. I take aim at the trash can, and my mood boosts when I get it in on the first try.
I dig deeply into the far recesses of the freezer to find the supper Mom left me—a mac and cheese microwave dinner. I sigh. Once the beep signals it’s ready, I plop in front of the TV and try relaxing a bit before it’s time to get ready for work. I watch TV, but I never actually relax.
A couple of hours later, I’m at the movie theater tugging at the unforgiving material of my burgundy striped uniform pants. They’re teemed with an unflattering vest that pulls so tightly across my rounded belly that the buttons threaten to mutiny.
“Mallory!” my boss, Trevor, yells from the doorway of his office. “I need a word.” He scurries back inside.
Trevor’s always calling me to his office for some reason or another, so I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Asshole. That’s a word, right?” I grumble in a hushed tone so no one hears me. It gives me satisfaction all the same. I knock before entering, even though he’s expecting me, and wait until Trevor calls me inside.
“Take a seat,” he says gesturing towards the green, cracked leather chair that’s seen far better days. I squeeze in, and he begins his lecture du jour. “Mallory, you’re a good worker, and I’m not debating that fact. However, as I’ve mentioned on numerous occasions, employees are not to eat the concessions.” Trevor scratches at his receding hairline. “It’s been brought to my attention that, yet again, you’ve been enjoying copious amounts of popcorn. At the theater’s expense, I might add.” I attempt to deny his accusation by shaking my head, but his hand halts me. Trevor, leaning across his desk, squashes his pot belly while picking up a video cassette to wave around in front of my face. “Evidence.” Lips pursed, I look to the floor. “This is your last warning, Mallory. Go on and start your shift.” He gives a flick of his hand.
Standing up to leave, I again give a solid tug at my waistcoat. Trevor peers over his thick horn-rimmed glasses at me as he tuts, “Go look in the back room. There’s plenty of spares in there. Find a uniform that fits.” Trevor’s attention is quickly directed back to the stack of paperwork on his desk, and I hurry from the room before he can say anything else.
“Just got to check in the back for something,” I call to Michael, the lanky, buck-toothed usher who also works the evening shifts with me. He nods in reply, and I hurry as quickly as I can to the storage room. Rummaging through a stack of smelly vests, I finally find one that not only fits, but is even a little roomy.
My name is called from the lobby, so I pop in my arms and fasten the buttons as I walk to the snack counter.
“Sorry it took so long.” I’m practically out of breath when apologizing to Michael, who huffs and makes his way to the couple patiently waiting to hand over their tickets. I busy myself getting the various machines ready, then restock some of the shelves with candy.
The delicious aroma of the fresh, buttery popcorn has me very nearly reaching in to pop a kernel directly into my mouth; however, just before doing so, my eyes dart to the security camera aimed straight at me. “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. Serving refreshments at a movie theater certainly isn’t my dream job, and having popcorn readily available has been a huge perk to help make the time fly. However, I can’t afford to lose this job. Best to find another way to distract myself.
Being that it’s a Thursday night, business is pretty slow, so there really isn’t much to do. “Baby Got Back” plays softly on the radio, and I bump it up just a notch while cleaning the drink machine. While I mouth the words, my arms and hips move rhythmically to the beat until I hear laughter from behind me. I’m already beet-red when I turn, but I want to run and hide in the back room when I see a line of blue and gold letterman jackets. Smug grins are on the faces of some of the high school’s football team, as well as the cheerleaders who happen to be in tow. Oh crap! Out of everyone who lives in this small town, why does it have to be them? Brent, the freckle-faced bully from kindergarten, has his arm casually draped over the shoulder of Tiffany, a particularly ditzy cheerleader. My stomach does a flip upon seeing him, and I pray he doesn’t notice. His gaze hones in on me.
“Nice moves! That song’s appropriate isn’t it?” Brent says as Tiffany’s giggle grates in my ears.
Nate, who is at the other end of the line, steps forward, but his girlfriend, Whitney, stops him by placing her hand against his broad chest. “Brent, don’t be so nasty,” she scolds. “Mallory, take no notice of him. He’s just pissed because Coach shouted at him at practice because his game’s been off lately.” Nate, stifling his laughter, pulls Whitney into him and kisses the top of her head.
Brent flips Whitney the finger, and she just sticks her tongue out at him. Brent’s face turns crimson, and he lets go of Tiffany to take an aggressive step forward.
“Brent,” Nate warns, keeping his arm firmly around a smug Whitney.
“Whatever,” he mumbles, stepping up to the counter. “Yo, Triple P,” he calls to me, chuckling at the use of his stupid nickname for me. It was Princess Poopie Pants in kindergarten, and over time, he’s shortened it to Triple P.
With a coy smile, I look to
the ground. “What would you like, Brent?” Tiffany pushes in front of him.
“Brentie Boo Bear, can you get an extra-large popcorn so we can share?” Now I’m laughing inside at the use of her pet name for him.
“Extra butter, Boo Bear?” I ask, but my gaze falls to the floor when he glares back at me.
“Yes! We love extra butter,” chirps Tiffany.
Brent rests his arms on the counter while leaning across. “No one calls me Boo Bear. Not even you.” He points to Tiffany. “And especially not you! Shut that face of yours and serve us like you’re supposed to, or I’ll find my uncle and tell him to fire your ass,” he threatens.
“Brent!” Trevor calls to his nephew, and I breathe a sigh of relief only once I’m sure Trevor hadn’t heard the exchange.
“Uncle Trevor!” Brent gives his uncle a hug and quick back slap in greeting.
“So, boys, you sure are doing us proud this season,” Trevor proudly addresses the five members of my school’s football team.
I’m a little shaken by Brent’s demeanor, and though I hate the way he belittles me, I still have the biggest crush on him. Why does he make me feel this way? Am I seriously that much of a glutton for punishment? Sure, he’s hot, but his attitude and demeanor are the worst. With no time to sort it out, I quickly serve the rest of the team while trying to hide the hurt I’m feeling by remaining silent. Still embarrassed that he overheard the exchange, I refuse to look at Nate when he tries some small talk with me. I simply offer a half-hearted shrug to acknowledge his attempt. Quick glances at Brent lets me know he’s now bragging to Trevor about a football game. Shortly after that, Michael arrives, extra eager to take their tickets, and even going so far as to show them inside. The door swings shut, finally blocking the view of Tiffany’s barely-there skirt, and I daydream of what it would be like to be included in the group.
The Broken Road to Forever Page 1